


Farmer Delphine

by MlleClaudine



Category: Orphan Black (TV)
Genre: Cophine AU, F/F, Farmer Delphine, Freeform, It's not easy being green, Orphan Black silliness, Skinny-dipping, a little weed never hurt anyone mmkay?, girls and horses, lesbian vegan activist Cosima, no-drama llama, okay technically the farmer's niece but still, pregnant bisexual Sarah, the sales(wo)man and the farmer's daughter, why you're just a bee charmer Delphine Cormier
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-03-07
Updated: 2018-10-17
Packaged: 2019-03-28 02:56:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 16
Words: 14,484
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13894752
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MlleClaudine/pseuds/MlleClaudine
Summary: Farmer Delphine was born out of a very silly idea thatSonnetCXVIand I started kicking around over on Tumblr.  At first she existed only as aseries of drabbles, but now she seems to have taken on a life of her own.  I've decided to house only the ongoing stories here, to give them a somewhat more organized home.  These are loosely connected but they are just as likely to meander off onto their own tangents.  Unlike withmy other writing, I'll welcome any Farmer Delphine prompts and suggestions; however, also unlike my other writing, these will probably stay T-rated.  As always, feedback is greatly appreciated.  Allons-y!





	1. In the Beginning

**Author's Note:**

  * For [SonnetCXVI](https://archiveofourown.org/users/SonnetCXVI/gifts).



The cows on Delphine’s farm somehow always surround themselves with flowers. Oddly, it’s not a beef or dairy farm — the cows just appear from time to time. No one knows where they come from, or where they go; she’s asked at the surrounding properties but no one has reported a cow missing. They tend to avoid her crops so she doesn’t mind them. She names the ones who turn up regularly. The Jersey in this picture is one of her favorites, a heifer (as far as she can tell; she’s never seen her in calf) she calls Fleurette.

This is the tractor saleswoman who seduced Delphine in the haymow of the old barn when Delphine was 16. (To be fair, the saleswoman had no idea of Delphine’s age. To be doubly fair, Delphine made the first move, because can you blame her?) Delphine still harbors a nostalgic fondness for that barn and refused to pull it down even after building the much needed, larger new barn.

This is the tractor that the saleswoman persuaded Delphine’s parents to buy. Despite its cuteness and Lamborghini pedigree, it’s a rugged, dependable little machine that requires minimal maintenance and can handle most tasks on the farm. Farmer Delphine loves the determined expression on its little face and has had many a conversation with Filippo (her pet name for it) while hauling gravel with the backhoe or tilling the fields.

Farmer Delphine did the bulk of the work building her new barn, with the help of some Amish carpenters. She was solely responsible for the entire crew’s going on Rumspringa for the second time in their young lives.

Farmer Delphine’s jeans are worn nearly white at the inner seam where the seat of the combine rubs against the cloth. Being frugal, she turns them into cutoffs when the denim finally wears through but of course they wind up looking like Daisy Dukes on her. No one on the farm seems to mind.

Farmer Delphine can assist a sheep in labor because she has such nice long slender hands. She strenuously wishes that sheep lady parts didn’t look so much like human ones, though. One of her exes used to get off on watching her at a lambing and would insist on reenacting the scenario when they got back to bed.

Farmer Delphine has abs of steel from splitting rails and chopping firewood. She’s been approached by a well-known producer to star in a series of fitness videos called “Flat Belly the Farmhand Way.” Workouts include shots of her shirtless (wearing only a sports bra or a threadbare ‘beater that’s translucent from being soaked through with sweat) as she shovels manure, tosses hay bales with a pitchfork and mends fences in the back 40.

Farmer Delphine’s horses all have mustaches. In between planting crops and repairing fences, she sometimes styles the ‘staches using marshmallow fluff (dyed with colored Jello if she’s feeling especially whimsical).

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [trylonandperisphere](https://archiveofourown.org/users/trylonandperisphere) made [a valiant attempt to preserve some of the comments](http://trylonandperisphere.tumblr.com/post/165884799302/farmer-delphine), because a lot of them were _priceless_. Special honors and thanks go to [@seanpgilroy's](https://seanpgilroy.tumblr.com/) brilliant photo manip of Hillbilly Cosima. :D
> 
>  


	2. Enter Sarah

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Off a prompt from [@obfan22](https://obfan22.tumblr.com/post/165862154402/farmer-delphine): _Farmer delphine ventures to the farm run by Mrs s to collect some chickens, where she runs into this young woman, who happens to be on a break from university…… And Mrs s daughter….. Can farmer delphine resist temptation?_
> 
>  

“So,” says Delphine after they have driven a few miles in silence. The rush of air and the sound of nearly bald tires thrumming over concrete rumble through the old Dodge’s open windows and make it necessary to raise her voice. “What are you studying?”

One slim shoulder shrugs. “ ‘m not. The school sort of gave me an invitation to the world. Social work,” she adds at Delphine’s sidelong glance. “I was gonna major in social work.”

Delphine is momentarily nonplussed. She would not have pictured this almost ferally beautiful girl working toward such a degree. “That’s… too bad,” she says carefully.

They pass a mostly decomposed grayish lump in the middle of the two-lane highway. “Possum,” they say at the same time, exchanging tentative smiles. Playing _name that roadkill_ is often the only entertainment on these long empty stretches of road.

“So what’s your story?”

Delphine snorts. “There’s not much to tell. My family emigrated from France to come live with my aunt, my father’s sister, when I was eleven. You can imagine the culture shock.”

“Yeah, well, I ain’t exactly from around here either, innit.”

“We didn’t have much choice. I learned my way around the farm, learned to love it. Went to college, earned a BS in Agricultural Science with a minor in Animal Reproduction, then came back to take over running the place.”

Sarah is quiet for a while. “So you grow shit and get cows knocked up.”

Delphine can’t help smiling. “Sheep, but yes. That’s essentially it.”

“Aren’t you gonna ask?”

Swerving to avoid a pothole, Delphine blinks. “Ask what?”

“Ask me why I got kicked out of school.”

“I didn’t think that was any of my business,” she says carefully.

“ ‘s not, but it’s not exactly a secret, either.”

The girl slumps against the door pillar, idly playing with her mane of shining dark chestnut hair as it swirls and dances in the breeze. Delphine is struck again by how beautiful she is, how delicate her features are in contrast with the roughness and brashness of her manner. “All right. Why did you get kicked out of school?”

A corner of that delicious mouth corrugates into a wry smile. “Slept with one of my professors. Bloody Economics 101. Birth control pills didn’t work and about halfway through the semester I realized I was up the duff. Pregnant,” she clarifies, somewhat unnecessarily. Delphine’s heard countless versions of this story before, from classmates and girls her age who live isolated on surrounding farms.

“When I told him about it, he wanted me to get an abortion. Said he’d pay half. Couldn’t afford more because his wife would get suspicious if too much money went missing. And yeah, the wife was news to me.”

Rage boils in the pit of her stomach. “Putain! That fucking asshole! He — “

The wide dark eyes crinkle in amusement. “Don’t worry, Blondie, I got a bit of my own back.”

“Euh… how?” Delphine finds her jaw and back and shoulder muscles difficult to unclench.

“Fucked his wife’s brains out. Didn’t tell her who I was. Just made sure as hell that she enjoyed it, and that he caught us in what they call a, um, compromising position. Caused a bit of a ruckus. And here I am.”

“Oh.“ She makes the turn into her farm’s driveway carefully so as not to jostle the crates of chickens in the back of the truck. Slowly they scrunch along the winding gravel path. “So did you… ?”

“Get an abortion? Nah. My mum said it was up to me. Keep it or lose it, she’d back me either way.”

Disconcertingly, Delphine feels a stab of envy. Had she found herself in Sarah’s position, her parents would not have been nearly so sanguine. “You’re… very brave.”

“Stupid, maybe. I don’t feel so brave.”

They pull up to the mobile chicken coop she’d built for the new arrivals. Sarah helps her unload the crates from the truck. Together they release the pullets and the sole bantam rooster into the enclosure and watch with satisfaction as all the birds immediately start scratching in the grass and pecking grubs out of the several-days-old piles of horse and sheep manure.

“Well, that’s done, then,” says Sarah.

Delphine takes a deep breath. “You don’t need to get back home right away, do you?”

That crooked, insouciant smile flashes again. “Something on your mind, Blondie?”


	3. Just a bit of French Leather

For several months now Sarah has come and gone from her bed. It’s not unlike befriending a stray cat, Delphine often thinks wryly, but all in all it’s been a highly satisfactory arrangement. Sarah fucks with sybaritic abandon, offering her lean and astoundingly supple body with a joyous ardor that usually makes up for the arm’s-length prickliness of her personality. Often after a bout of sex she disappears for weeks without a word; other times, like tonight, she falls asleep in Delphine’s embrace, or spends hours pacing about talking, her small figure looking lost in an oversized flannel shirt that Delphine had unearthed out of the back of a closet.

Aware that she herself had treated many past lovers in much the same manner, Delphine empathizes all too well with the desire for distance, the fierce, almost irrational need to keep from being emotionally subsumed. She accepts Sarah’s physical presence for what it is and abides by her unspoken rules, and only occasionally wishes for something more.

Noting the time, she sighs and attempts to slip out from the sleep-heavy limbs wrapped around her.

”Nggghh. Where you goin’?”

“I need to get ready for bed.” Absently she kisses the top of the dark head pillowed on the round of her shoulder, inhaling the scents of sex and sweat, of sweetly floral shampoo mingling with the faintly acrid traces of the cigarette Sarah had smoked earlier. Kneading the nape of the slender neck, she marvels again at the texture of the tiny hairs there, so fine and downy that they seem to elude her touch.

A puff of air gusts warmly over her chest. Slightly chapped lips press a soft kiss to her throat. “Hate to break it to you, Blondie, but you’re _in_ bed.”

“To sleep,” she chides, stroking the tips of her nails up and down the length of Sarah’s back, gliding over defined columns and planes of muscle, around knobbly promontories of sculpted bone. “The alfalfa in the north field is in the bud stage already and I want to be up early to get the third cutting in.“

The sleek body draped over her tautens in a lazy stretch, then relaxes again. “Not tomorrow, you won’t.”

“What?”

“Di’n’t say you could stop, did I?” The girl burrows closer in tacit approval, all but purring as Delphine resumes her delicate scritching. “My mum says it’s going to rain tonight. Ground’ll be too wet even if you cut high.”

She can’t help frowning. “The weather reports are clear. There hasn’t been a cloud in the sky for days.”

Sarah shrugs. “Don’t ask me how she knows what she knows. Mum says it’s gonna rain, then it’s gonna rain.”

Delphine makes a noncommittal sound but her resolve is wavering. Siobhan Sadler may have come late to farming, but Delphine respects her deeply and had learned long ago that there were things the mysterious Irish woman somehow intuited that you just didn’t question.

Besides, the beautiful naked girl in her arms is a powerful reason to reconsider her plans.

It’s the smile that finally undoes her, the wickedly slow upcurve of the corners of the generous mouth that harbors invitation and promise. “Fine. You win.” Rolling Sarah over, careful to brace her weight on her elbows and off the tiny firm swelling that had just recently started to protrude at the lower part of the flat belly, Delphine leans in for a deep kiss that tastes like every secret she had ever kept from the world.


	4. The Continuing Excellent and Very Enlightening Adventures of Teenaged Farmer Delphine

The new neighbor was… different.

She wore men’s clothes and smoked vile smelling cigars, played high stakes poker in the invitation-only back room at The Toolbox, drank liquor from dark squat bottles while rocking on her dilapidated house’s creaky front porch swing, and frequently got into fistfights in town. Because of girls, or so the rumors said.

Teenaged Farmer Delphine was intrigued.

She’d noticed that the neighbor would sometimes disappear into the woods bordering their properties, then emerge with something in her hands and a self-satisfied grin on her dirt-smudged but still very pretty face. Resolving to follow to find out where the neighbor went, she looked up from doing her chores one day and happened to see the familiar bright blonde head disappearing into shadowy trees. Immediately she abandoned her task of greasing the zerks and replacing broken tines in the pickup of the square baler, hurrying to catch up while trying to move as quietly as possible.

From the edge of a clearing, she watched the neighbor stroll to the hollow tree where a big cluster of their bees had set up a new home after swarming earlier in the spring. The neighbor, seemingly unconcerned about the bees buzzing around her face and carpeting her shirt and hair, reached into the hollow, extracting a big chunk of comb and transferring it into a quart Mason jar, wiping the mouth of the jar before screwing on the lid. Teenaged Farmer Delphine was mesmerized and didn’t even try to hide when the neighbor spotted her and started walking toward her, shedding bees as she approached.

Opening the jar, the neighbor swiped two fingers inside and held them out, sticky and dripping with golden honey. “Wanna taste? There’s almost nothing better than honey straight from the hive.” The neighbor smirked knowingly. “Almost.”

You can hardly blame Teenaged Farmer Delphine for her reaction.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A million thanks to [@seanpgilroy](https://seanpgilroy.tumblr.com/) for the awesome photo manip. :D


	5. Cophine se rencontrent

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Off [@ladycanuck](http://ladycanuck.tumblr.com/)'s comment: _Everything is peaceful, until the three neighbouring acres are purchased by a bunch of lesbians running an animal sanctuary. Will farmer Delphine butt heads with the newcomers? Or will one seduce her into their tree hugging, vegan ways? Delphine thinks Cosima is cute, so she lets her liberate the first three chickens. But when she catches her one night trying to save one of her sheep tension comes to a head…_

In contrast to the overgrown chaos of the yard, the small clapboard house is neat and well kept, painted white with dark wood trim and a glossy deep red front door. A framed cross-stitched sign in a window proclaims, _Vegans Taste Better._

Hearing pattering on the porch floorboards behind her, Delpine looks down to see the astoundingly ugly Muscovy duck who had been patrolling the messy vegetable garden in the front yard; before she can make a move, he lunges hissing at her ankles. “Va t’en!” she whisper-snarls, nudging the duck carefully with the side of her boot, but the duck is undeterred from his efforts to bite and batter at her legs. Just as she is winding up for a proper kick, the door opens.

“Albert! Cut it out, dude!” Wielding a broom, a slender girl with neat dark dreadlocks and black-framed cateye glasses shoos away the duck, chivvying him down the porch stairs and back toward the garden. The duck goes grudgingly, though not without audible grumbling; Delphine swears it looks her straight in the eye as though promising retribution. “Sorry about that. He’s kind of an asshole — whoa.”

The girl blinks up at her, looking vaguely stunned.

Also very, very cute.

 _Remember why you’re here_ , Delphine tells herself. Though she is finding it difficult to maintain a stern demeanor when she is so obviously being checked out by an attractive young woman.

Except for the dramatic swoop of her winged eyeliner, her face is bare of makeup. Her tanktop is just short enough at the hem to show a tantalizing glimpse of a flat belly. Subtle tattoos — Delphine hopes she’s not being too obvious about trying to see what the designs are — adorn her forearms; her upper arms are impressively well defined without being bulky. Knit yoga pants cling to the gentle curves of her hips and shapely, toned legs. The bare feet are lightly tanned; a thin gold ring encircles one toe.

The smile that starts to curl across her beautiful mouth is confident, almost cocky.

A _very_ attractive young woman. Merde.

Delphine holds out her hand. “I’m Delphine Cormier. I own the farm next door.” She clears her throat. “I believe you have several of my chickens.”

The woman’s smile widens as she deliberately ignores the hand, which Delphine finally lets drop after an awkward pause. “No idea what you’re talking about, dude.”

Delphine can’t help noticing the tip of the pink tongue peeking out between the white teeth. “There are game cameras all over the farm. I have video evidence that you entered their coop on three successive mornings when they were pastured behind the sheep. Each time, you removed a chicken and carried it off. I would like them back, please.”

Just then a chicken strolls into view. Except for its neat red comb and wattle, it is snowy white from its beak to the feathers lightly covering its legs and feet. When it spies Delphine, it squawks softly and runs toward her. “Mathilde!” she cries with delight, crouching down to stroke the warm silky feathers. The chicken seems to be equally delighted, turning its head this way and that so Delphine can scritch it from every angle, chuckling to itself all the while.

“I guess she knows you,” says the woman wryly as Delphine stands, tucking the contented chicken under her arm. “How’d you know it was me?”

“Your hair is, euh, quite distinctive. When I asked about you at the feed store, Bert knew right away who you were.”

"Busted.” The grin is incandescent and anything but repentant. “I suppose you want to take your other ladies home as well.”

“I do, but Mathilde especially. She’s the peacemaker in the flock. Since she’s been gone, the Black Minorcas have been constantly bullying the Araucanas, and the Andalusians are so upset they’ve stopped laying. The only problem is,” she pauses, unexpectedly flustered, “I rode my horse down here, so I can take only one chicken at a time.”

“Which means you’ll just have to come back. Would that be such a bad thing?”

Delphine slowly shakes her head.

“Awesome. Tell you what. Why don’t you join me for dinner? Be here at 7:00 — the bread should be done by then. My housemates are out for the evening, so it’ll be just us. Something simple, maybe greens from the garden and some tomato soup. Give us a chance to get to know each other better, yeah?”

Delphine smiles, noticing that there are dozens of shades of brown and green in the sparkling hazel eyes. "I’d like that very much.”

“Coisima Niehaus.”

The hand that grasps Delphine’s is soft, warm, and in no hurry to let go. “Enchanté de faire votre connaissance, Cosima.”

“Enchanté."


	6. L’Aventure continue

Mindful of the old Dodge’s nearly bald tires, Delphine drives slowly and carefully up the rutted gravel road leading to Cosima’s house. Pulling into a rough turnaround, she shuts off the engine. A quick look around reveals no sign of Albert the watch-duck, so she hops out.

She gives a low whistle, then clicks her tongue. Rustling from the direction of the detached garage alerts her. She whistles again; this time she is rewarded with the sight of a plump Barred Rock and a diminutive Olandsk Dwarf clambering out from beneath a thick blanket of ivy growing along the side of the detached garage. They run to her to be fussed over, and make no objection when she picks them up and settles them into the hay-filled crate in the bed of the truck.

“Garde!” Delphine tells Dot, who wags her tail and lies down happily panting on an old horse blanket that’s folded next to the crate; inside, the chickens move closer to the warmth of the Border collie’s furry side. Bending, she kisses the top of the black and white head, then closes the tailgate.

She’s early, she knows, so she takes a few moments to walk through the front garden. Tomato plants with vines nearly as big around as her thumb are heavily laden; she identifies Brandywines, Green Zebras, Cherokee Purples, Yellow Submarines, some kind of paste tomato, and a sprawling variety that bears clusters of tiny orangeish-red fruits. Curious, she plucks one of the currant-sized tomatoes and eats it; the skin seems to barely contain the burst of juice that instantly floods her mouth with intense tangy sweetness. 

Herbs run riot in the crooked but obviously fecund beds that are dotted here and there with marigolds and nasturtiums. Running her hand through the top branches of a vast shaggy rosemary bush to awaken its scent, she goes over to a stand of towering, lushly green plants to examine them more closely in the fading light.

“Yep, it’s weed,” says a voice from the front porch. “Killer crop of Green Crack, maybe the best I’ve ever grown. Won’t be ready to harvest for another few months, though, so don’t get any ideas.”

Delphine turns to see Cosima standing in the doorway and smiles. Her dark blue apron says _LAVATOR AMPHORAM_ in white block letters and covers a maroon cardigan over a patterned knit sleeveless top and a long gauzy black skirt that at once flows and clings; as before, she is barefoot. “Considering that you appear to have helped yourself to my sheep manure, I’d think I could claim a share.”

That smile flashes. “Busted again. I’ve got no objections if you want to join me for a session or two. Come on in. Dinner’s not quite ready but at least you can hang out where the mosquitoes won’t try to mug you.”

Having already swatted a few determined bloodsuckers that had been whining around her arms and ears, Delphine goes to her truck to grab the bottle of wine she’d brought and gladly climbs the front porch steps.

“Oh, dude, thanks,” Cosima says, accepting the bottle and making a moue of approval at the label. “Shoes,” she adds over her shoulder as she heads back to the kitchen.

“What?”

“No shoes in the house. Too much dirt and literal shit outside.”

Obligingly, Delphine stops at the entranceway and pulls off her boots, leaving them on a rack by the door. “Something smells wonderful,” she says, pitching her voice to carry over the bustle and clatter emanating from the kitchen and the music softly pulsing from hidden speakers. 

Cosima looks up from sauteeing chopped onion in a cast iron pan and grins. “You mean besides me?”

Delphine makes sure Cosima can see her roll her eyes. _Cheeky girl_. But she’s smiling as she wanders around the cluttered but cozy living room.

Every surface is covered with _some_ thing — a scattering of CDs, notebooks, handmade art projects in progress, a ceramic bowl holding a skein of deep purple yarn and a pair of knitting needles, a forest of intricately blown and clearly well used glass water pipes. A small freestanding soapstone pellet stove rests like a squat obedient dog in the middle of a square of firebricks bordered by thick glazed tile. All the furniture is a jumble of styles, colors and finishes. Somehow, rather than looking and feeling chaotic, the whole effect is warm, cohesive, alive.

A squashy teal blue armchair by a window looks like the perfect spot to curl up for an afternoon of reading. She investigates the pile of books on the spindly table next to it: Louise Erdrich’s _LaRose_ ; a slim volume of Emliy Dickinson’s poetry; A. S. Byatt’s _The Djinn in the Nightingale’s Eye_ ; a battered, stained and creased spiral-bound copy of _How to Keep Your Volkswagen Alive_ ; and a plastic-jacketed hardcover of Gaiman and Pratchett’s _Good Omens_ , with a stamp on the bottom that proclaims it the property of the town library.

“Your library book is five months overdue,” she calls, noting the date on the checkout card written in Joanie the assistant librarian’s neat hand.

“I told them I lost it and paid the replacement fee,” says Cosima over the sound of something sizzling; the delicious smell of garlic wafts into the front room. “Bought another brand new copy to donate to them, too.”

“Euh… but why?”

The sizzling stops. Cosima appears in the doorway, holding a spatula. “Because this one falls open at almost every single one of my favorite parts. I’d just moved here and finding it was like meeting an old friend. So I kept it, as a kind of talisman, you know?”

Delphine smiled, immediately liking her even more. “I do know.”


	7. Voulez-vous diner avec moi?

“That,” Delphine says, savoring a bite of slightly smoky charred eggplant glossy with a hot, sour, and sweet sauce brightened by the sting of pickled chilies, “is _extraordinary_.”

Cosima grins, taking a sip of the wine Delphine had brought, a juicy medium-bodied Pinot noir. “Not exactly what you were expecting?”

“Frankly, no. In my experience, when someone says, ‘It’ll be vegan, hope that’s cool,’ it usually means having to be polite while choking down something terribly stodgy and bland.” She rips a hunk from the remains of the well browned loaf of bread resting in a basket and tears off the crisp-chewy crust to dip it into a shallow dish of olive oil, enjoying the grassy, peppery flavor with the hearty texture of the rye and whole wheat sourdough. “You’re an amazing cook.”

Saluting jauntily with her wine glass, Cosima shrugs. “Start with good ingredients and don’t do too much to them. Not a lot to it.”

“That’s funny,” Delphine says with a smile as she swipes the inside of the bread through her bowl to sop up the last traces of her tomato soup, “you don’t strike me as someone who habitually hides behind a cloak of modesty.”

That brilliant smile flashes again. “I’m not. But cooking’s basically, like, Chem lab, you know? Molecule A reacts with Molecule B to transform into Substance C. If you can read, you can cook. My mom’s the amazing one. We didn’t have a lot of money when I was growing up. Mom could stretch a dollar like nobody’s business. She’d take the gnarliest bits that most people don’t know that animals even _have_ and turn them into something incredible.”

“So you weren’t always a vegan?” Scooping out the last bit of her Japanese sweet potato — its flesh is pale yellowish white rather than orange, with a thin purple skin and a flavor and texture reminiscent of roasted chestnuts — Delphine eats it with a drizzle of miso-spiked coconut oil. “Mmm.”

“Nah. That was a conscious choice I made when I moved out and was living on my own.” Her laughter is infectious. “Of course, the fact that a lot of Mom’s recipes start out with instructions like ‘Beat most of the air out of the cow lung’ might have been a factor.”

“I’ve eaten lung before. My grandmother used to poach it in a wine sauce, then sauté it with tomatoes and onions. It tastes rather like pot roast.”

“How very French. Hey, you want the rest of the spinach?”

“Yes, please.” Cosima scrapes the contents of the serving bowl onto her plate, then watches with satisfaction as Delphine inhales it. Made with puréed cauliflower, the beautifully fresh spinach is a revelation; she’d never before realized how much dairy products actually muted the flavors.

“Save room for dessert, dude,” says Cosima, looking slightly awed.

“Farming is a very physical job. I guess I do eat a lot. But,” she raises an eyebrow, “there is always room for dessert.”

“Room for other things as well, I hope.”

A wolfish smile curls her lips. Leaning closer, Delphine doesn’t have to wait long for Cosima to meet her the rest of the way in a welcoming, increasingly heated kiss. “Oh, yes.”


	8. On ne sait jamais sur quel pied danser

The squashy teal armchair is just as comfortable as it looks. Especially with a beautiful girl straddling her lap, hands wound into her hair and kissing her breathless.

Cosima’s glasses, Delphine notes with amused satisfaction, are fogged over. Sliding her hands up the well toned arms, she nips at Cosima’s swelling lips with careful teeth. “This,” she whispers, tugging at the lapels of the lacy maroon cardigan, “is in my way.”

Sitting back, Cosima’s eyes drift open. She takes off her glasses and sets them on the table next to the pile of books, then blinks nearsightedly before flashing _that_ smile again and shrugging out of the sweater, tossing it aside.

Without her glasses, Cosima suddenly reminds her of… someone, but whom? Before Delphine can pin down the fleeting impression, Cosima leans in to capture her mouth again and she gladly lets conscious thought evaporate like the smoke from the joint they’d shared earlier. Her head spins pleasantly and she is perfectly content to listen to the stream-of-consciousness running commentary provided by her mildly stoned brain.

_She’s such a good kisser… her ass is amazing… wonder if she has any Nutella… is Nutella even vegan?… she smells like lilacs and warm melon and new-cut Bermuda hay drying in the sun… I have no idea who any of this music is but I can see it pulsing in colors… it feels like the earth just changed its rotational course and that means I’ll have to plant soybeans in the fall… the corn will be so confused… I could really go for some Nutella right now…_

One hand still tangled in her hair, the other meanders down her neck, the slim fingers unerringly finding and teasing every sensitive spot. Their tongues twine, swirling and caressing, teeth and lips parrying and retreating in a playful but increasingly intense dance. 

Her nipples are rigid as they brush against her camisole; the liquid thrum of heat between her legs is echoed in her muscles. Gathering the hem of Cosima’s knit top, she slides her hands up the long defined planes of the slender back. Cosima chuckles into their kiss. Delphine likes the sound of her laughter, husky and burbling. “What’s so funny?”

“You really are a farmer. Your hands are made of, like, teak or some shit like that.”

She stills them against the warm satiny skin, suddenly self conscious. “Sorry.”

“No, don’t be. It’s kind of hot. Fuck, _you’re_ hot. But before this goes any further, I wanna do something.” Abruptly Cosima breaks their kiss, managing to nimbly climb off her lap. “Right back, ‘kay?” she murmurs, bending to kiss her again before pattering off to the depths of the house. 

She’s disoriented and a little dizzy. Over the soft rhythmic thump of music she hears the squeak of a cabinet door opening and the sounds of rummaging and clinking, then the pad of bare feet over hardwood floors as Cosima returns holding a small dark jar.

Clambering back onto Delphine’s lap, she perches lightly atop her thighs. The gauzy black skirt does little to conceal the splendid definition of the strong, slender legs or the enticing scent rising from between them. Cosima opens the jar and tilts it toward Delphine. The white cream inside is subtly perfumed with lavender and rosemary; she nods in approval. “Give me your hand.”

Obediently, Delphine holds up her right hand, which Cosima cradles between hers. “Dude,” she says almost reverently, tracing the calluses, scars and the latest scratches, deep but healing, sustained while pulling brambles off the fenceline last week. Softly Cosima presses a kiss to the back of her hand, breath warm, lingering so that Delphine can feel the outline of her lips.

Turning her hand over to stroke the curve of the silky cheek with her fingertips, she smiles as Cosima kitty-cats against her palm. Teeth close gently but decisively over the fleshy mound at the base of her thumb; she nearly jumps when Cosima sucks, hard, then lets go to admire the mark.

Cosima scoops up a big dab of the cream and rubs it slowly into Delphine’s hand, massaging every muscle and lingering over each finger. The cream absorbs quickly but she does not seem inclined to hurry. Mesmerized, Delphine watches as Cosima repeats the process with her other hand.

Her skin hasn’t felt this soft and smooth since she was a child. “That’s marvelous. What do you put in it?”

“Buncha shit. Shea butter, coconut oil, vitamin E oil, essential oils I’ve distilled from herbs from the garden, all the good stuff.”

Sliding her hands up Cosima’s back once more, she smiles when Cosima leans in to kiss her again. “Perhaps,” she murmurs against the knowing lips, “we could find other places to use it.”

A sudden pounding on the door sends her pulse hammering. 

“Cos!” More pounding. “Oi, Cos! Open up, I know you’re home. I need a favor.”

Cosima’s face displays irritation rather than alarm, so she forces herself to try to relax.

After a moment she hears the fumbling of a key and the click of the latch as the knob turns. A leather-jacketed whirlwind stomps into the room. “There you are. Why the fuck didn’t you answer? Came over to ask if I could borrow that piece of shit Bug of yours. Got a date with that hot bloke Cal who works at the hardware store — holy fuck. Delphine?”

Realizing with a stab of belated clarity whom Cosima reminds her of, she clears her throat. “Hello, Sarah.”


	9. Ménage à quoi?

"I take it you two know each other," Cosima says dryly.

Seeing her and Sarah together now, Delphine marvels that she didn't make the connection before. Cosima, still straddling her lap, chortles with poorly suppressed laughter as she reaches for her glasses and puts them back on. Sarah is in the doorway scowling but the corners of her mouth are starting to tug upwards. "You could say that. You could also say that she was shagging me senseless not a week ago."

Delphine is unsure what to do with her hands; she keeps them scrupulously still against Cosima's silky back beneath the knit top. This is quite possibly the most awkward situation she's found herself in since sophomore year in college when she'd realized the Soil MicroBio classmate she'd just seduced was the new girlfriend of the boy she'd recently broken up with. Infuriatingly, neither Sarah nor Cosima appears to be particularly perturbed.

"Duuuuude. Tell me she's as good as she looks."

"Better. She does this thing where she kinda corkscrews her fingers up your — "

"Ex _cuse_ me," Delphine snaps, freeing her hands and crossing her arms below her chest. "Please remember that I am _right here_."

"You sure are." Cosima is not even bothering to hide her amusement now. "Let me guess. You didn't know that Sarah had a sister."

She blinks. Yes, there is the uncanny resemblance, but even with what little she knows of either of them, she can hardly conceive of two more unalike people. "Sister. So you're Siobhan Sadler's daughter?"

"Not... quite."

If these two are yanking her chain... Feeling her jaw clench, Delphine fixes first Cosima and then Sarah with her most withering glare. "Explain."

"I'll leave you to it, Geek Monkey. Gotta run. Cool if I borrow your car?"

"Yeah, sure. Only problem is, I don't know where my keys are."

"When's the last time you drove it?"

"Last Friday, when we went to that new club in the city, and you picked up that girl and her boyfriend who kept putting his — "

"Never mind," says Sarah hastily. Clomping past them and down the hall, she completely ignores Cosima's indignant shout of "Shoes!"; she returns a moment later, triumphantly holding up a set of keys with a miniature marijuana leaf charm dangling from the ring. "They were in the pocket of that jacket you were wearing that night. Thanks, babes. Love you."

"Love you, too. Asshole. Didn't you say something about a hot date? Places to go, people to do?" Cosima makes a shooing motion. "Ta to ye, byes."

Sarah rolls her eyes at the deliberately terrible accent. "You been binge watching 'Great British Bake Off' again?"

"I can't help it. I'm smitten with unrequited lust for Ruby."

"All right, kitty hawk. Have fun with Blondie. And," Sarah makes the outdated but still universal "call me" hand signal and waggles an eyebrow. With that, she not-quite slams the door behind her and is gone as suddenly as she had arrived.

The house seems smaller in her absence. Soft music creeps back into Delphine's awareness. Cosima regards her with an enigmatic expression. "I don't know about you, but I could use a drink."

They wind up back in the cheerfully cluttered but clean kitchen, sitting at the round glass-topped wrought iron table that Delphine had learned earlier would rock if she leaned too much weight on her elbow. She guzzles ice water, her mouth still cottony from the weed. Cosima is drinking tea brewed briefly in a tiny clay pot shaped like a plump stylized turtle. Noticing Delphine's interest, she holds out her cup. "Here, try this."

The small cup appears to be handmade, apparently of the same clay as the teapot; heavy for its size, it fills her palms and is smoothly pleasing to the touch. Delphine takes a sip of the remarkably fragrant contents. As she would when tasting an unfamiliar wine, she rolls the liquid around her tongue, then inhales in a steady stream before swallowing. The first taste is floral and sweet and faintly astringent, rather like eating grapes while surrounded by gardenias; the aftertaste as she exhales reminds her of lychee and even pineapple. "That's really nice."

"It's made from the spring leaves and buds of a kind of camellia. They're dried and oxidized just like black tea leaves would be. Tons of antioxidants but no caffeine. Good for when you're coming down."

Delphine starts to hand back the cup but Cosima waves her off. "Keep it if you like it, dude." Reaching for the electric kettle that is gurgling on a nearby counter, she pours near-boiling water into the little clay pot, waits a short interval, then tops up Delphine's cup and fills another one for herself.

"Now," Delphine says, trying to sound serious, but as before she is completely unable to maintain her stern expression while looking at Cosima's animated, curious face, "you were going to explain how you and Sarah are sisters, but Siobhan Sadler is not your mother."

"Yeeeeeeeeahhh." Cosima plays idly with the rim of her cup. "So the thing with Sarah is, she's actually an orphan who got kicked around in the foster system until she was about nine. That was when she landed with Mrs. S, who adopted her."

"I didn't know."

"No reason you should have known. Anyway, a few years ago, Sarah decided to try to find some information about her birth parents. The adoption agency didn't have a lot to go on so she did one of those direct-to-consumer genetics tests. And of course, being Sarah, she blew off all the privacy settings, so her results flagged one of my searchbots that trawl public DNA databases. Got in touch with her, eventually moved out here from San Fran, and here we are."

There are so many yawning gaps in that narrative that Cosima has just so casually breezed over, Delphine decides not to probe too deeply for now. "So you were adopted, too?"

"Uh, no. My parents had me by IVF."

"But — "

"Yeah, that's where it gets a little weird. Um. How much do you know about genetics and the IVF process?"

Delphine hitches an eyebrow. "Quite a lot, actually. I've won the ASI's Industry Innovation Award twice in the past five years for advances in IVF and genetic preservation. The American Sheep Industry," she clarifies at Cosima's questioning look.

"K. Then you'll know how unlikely it is to get a perfect sibling match, down to identical maternity and reverse paternity determination, in a random population."

Almost choking on her tea, Delphine shakes her head. "Extremely unlikely. Unless you're monozygotic twins."

"Right."

"Which seems impossible, since your mother didn't give birth to Sarah. As far as you know."

"Right again. And no, I was definitely a singleton. Mom was in her thirties and had some health issues at the time; she only had one embryo transferred after they were sure it wasn't going to divide."

Wheels turn within wheels in her head. "That maternity test... did it by chance show that your mother — "

"Is not genetically my mother." A little crooked smile quirks the corner of Cosima's mouth. "Damn, you really do know your shit."

"Thank you," says Delphine with all the irony she can muster.

"And no, she doesn't know it. I haven't shared that news with her. Yet."

"I can see that that might not be something you'd want to drop on her without further proof." She holds out her teacup so Cosima can refill it again. "Wait. You said you've got searchbots. Plural. And evidently ongoing. Have you found any other identical-sibling matches?"

Cosima nods. "Five so far."

 _"Five."_ Sipping her tea, she considers the implications. "You've met them all?"

"Only one of them in person. Alison. Called and Skyped a couple of the others. Not really ready for a bizarro family reunion yet."

Delphine blows out a long breath and notes that her buzz finally seems to be wearing off. "You're turning out to be a much more interesting woman than I might have expected."

"'Interesting,' huh? I'll overlook the lukewarmness of that as long as you're still into continuing where we left off earlier."

In answer, Delphine leans in and slides a hand behind Cosima's slender neck to pull her into a lingering kiss.

When they finally break apart, they're both panting lightly. "I'll take that as a yes. Hey," Cosima's wide hazel eyes glint with mischief behind her glasses, "you wanna get naked?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Okay, that got a **lot** talkier and more expository than I'd intended. Just be very thankful I cut most of the sciencey stuff, because this is really not That Kind of story. So there will be a lot of hand-waving, mostly to sort of explain why there are a bunch of women who look more or less alike, but this chapter is probably as in-depth into the process as I'll go._
> 
>  
> 
> _Never fear, silly flirtiness resumes in the next chapter. Plus skinny-dipping. ;)_


	10. Clair de lune

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Off a prompt from [SonnetCXVI](https://archiveofourown.org/users/SonnetCXVI/works): _Farmer Delphine's, well, farmer tan._

"Where are we going?"

Cosima moves surprisingly easily through the thick forest, unhindered by her flimsy sandals and long flowy skirt. Delphine, on the other hand, is hard pressed to keep up. Her boots sound almost offensively loud in the darkness, making the frogs and crickets stop their singing as though in silent reproach at the sharp reports of sticks crackling under foot, of branches pushed aside that snap back to whip at her legs.

"Almost there, dude."

"You keep saying that. Are we lost?"

"Not... quite."

"That's not exactly reassuring. You do know there are coyotes, bears and the occasional bobcat out here?"

"Oh." Cosima's steps falter for the first time. "Um. The bears. Like, how big are they?"

"Enormous."

"Oh."

"Males can weigh 600 pounds or more."

Distracted by the way slivers of moonlight paint every muscle of Cosima's well defined arms in silvery relief, she nearly misses the quiet mumble. "... Maybe we should go back and get your gun from your truck?"

"But you were so persuasive when you argued that we didn't need my gun, that it would be more of a danger than a protection. After all, I might trip and drop it and it could go off accidentally and who knows who or what it might shoot? Or I might be overcome with a sudden inexplicable rage and decide to slaughter you and leave your body in the woods for the carrion eaters and then come back for your bones to grind them into fertilizer."

"Now you're just fucking with me." A barred owl hoots, freezing Cosima in her tracks again. "Aren't you?"

Delphine finds Cosima's hand and gives it a squeeze. "Yes, I am. Though bone meal is wonderful for root crops. My carrots, beets and radishes would benefit greatly from your untimely demise."

"Bitch," says Cosima amiably and without heat, though Delphine notes that she does not let go of her hand as they resume walking. "What about, like, the lions and tigers and bears?"

"Coyotes are quite small around here, hardly larger than foxes. Unless they're sick or rabid, bobcats generally avoid people, especially people who make a lot of noise like we're doing. And bears tend to be shy unless you happen to have or smell like food."

"Then it's a good thing we left the pic-a-nic basket at home, Boo-Boo."

"Why on earth are you talking like that?"

A gusting sigh. "Never mind. There," Cosima points, sounding relieved. "In that clearing just over the hill. You'll see, it's the prettiest little lake, perfectly round, like maybe it was formed by a comet strike or aliens or something."

Delphine starts to laugh.

"What?"

"It was formed, yes. By me and my excavator, not by comets or aliens. It's my main irrigation storage reservoir. We've been walking on my property ever since we went over that fence near your back yard. Which means you've technically been trespassing whenever you've come here, by the way. Not that that ever seems to deter you."

"You knew where we were going all along?"

"Well, maybe not exactly _where_ we were going, but of course I knew where we were. I've been intimately familiar with every square inch of this farm since I was a child."

"Intimately, huh?" They crest the ridge and come to a halt at the edge of the pond.

Delphine regards its shimmering surface with quiet satisfaction. Building it and the wetland that collected surface runoff and subsurface drainage from her fields had meant months of backbreaking labor for her and her crew as well as the sacrifice of several acres of prime cropland, but it was already paying dividends: her yield had more than doubled during last summer's drought. The reservoirs captured the abundant winter and spring rainfall and stayed almost constantly filled without her having to tap into scarce and expensive groundwater resources; very little water actually left the farm. Thanks to the constructed wetland, she was able to reclaim almost all of the sediment and nutrients for reuse, virtually eliminating the need for ag chemicals.

Returning her attention to Cosima, she watches as the sleeveless knit top gets tugged overhead, with an extra flourish to free it from the long dreads; a dark lacy bra joins it on the ground. The skirt puddles around her feet, revealing slim muscular legs and a firm, slightly boyish butt.

She wonders when Cosima had removed her underwear. Or if she had been wearing any to begin with.

Her mouth is suddenly dry. "Beautiful," she murmurs, admiring the gleam of Cosima's skin in the moonlight.

White teeth flash. Reflection glints off the dark-framed glasses. "Your turn, farmer girl."

Rolling her eyes unseen but unable to keep from smiling, Delphine unhurriedly undoes the buttons of her navy blue linen shirt and slides it off, hanging it over a nearby branch. The camisole beneath it does nothing to hide the springing of her nipples, which harden further at the brush of silky cloth against them in the cool air. After toeing off her boots and neatly rolling her socks inside them, she unfastens the buckle of her belt and the buttons of her fly, stepping out of her velvety faded jeans and hanging them beside her shirt. With her thumbs she slides the elastic band of her panties down past her hips, threading her legs out of the scrap of cotton and dangling it like a flag from yet another branch. Acutely aware of Cosima's gaze, she does a slow 360° turn, ending in a deep bow.

"Fuuuuuck."

Cosima moves silently toward her, reaching for one hand and tugging that arm closer. Fingers trace the sharply demarcated tan lines on her forearm. "You wear your sleeves rolled up when you work. Sometimes you wear gloves. God, the things you can do with these hands." Tiny fine hairs stand on end wherever the fingers have passed. A single fingertip reaches up to follow the curve where the neckline of her tanktops exposes the skin of her upper chest. "I bet these freckles fade over the winter." Teasing, the finger just barely brushes the tops of her breasts. Her nipples jut diamond-hard, aching for more, and she swallows a voluptuous moan.

Delphine gasps at the press and glide of Cosima's body against hers. Their skin is night-cool at the surface but quickly warms as arms wind about her neck, hers wrapping around Cosima to pull her closer.

Sliding her palms down the gentle slopes of the hips and bending so she can reach beneath the thighs, she easily lifts Cosima's slight weight, encouraging the strong legs to wrap around her waist. Kissing her deeply, Delphine slowly walks them toward the raised edge of the reservoir. "Would you like to find out what else I can do with my hands?"

The full lips curve against hers. She imagines the flash of that smile as Cosima nods without breaking their kiss.


	11. Si t'as d'la beuh à partager

"Did... you just make a kissy face at that fish?"

Delphine looks up to see an amused Cosima sauntering toward her. Only a little embarrassed, she smiles. "I can't help it. See, he wiggles his mustache when I feed him." She plucks a pellet out of the automatic feeder and drops it into the tank. The catfish obliges by whisking its barbels in response before sucking the pellet into its gaping mouth and hovering hopefully near the surface with lazy undulations of its fins and tail.

"That's kind of hilarious." Cosima drapes her arms around Delphine's neck and kisses her softly. "Hey, lady."

Delphine tucks her thumbs in the back pockets of Cosima's shorts, letting her hands rest just above the curve of the firm buttocks. Snugging her closer, she smiles against the full lips. "Hello, yourself. How did your interviews go?"

A practiced flick of her head swings Cosima's dreads out of the way so she can burrow into the curve of Delphine's neck. ""Pppbbbbbbbbttttthhhht. Basically I'm way overqualified to be a lab assistant at the community college and not qualified _enough_ to teach science to elementary kids. So my only other choices in this town are, do I want to wait tables at the diner or work the counter at the hardware store?"

Chuckling at Cosima's lugubrious expression and tone of voice, Delphine presses a light kiss to the satiny temple. "Both are perfectly honorable jobs, you know." She inhales the scent that has become so familiar in a very short time: floral, sweet, a little spicy, and the ever present underlying note of marijuana. "What about going back to school? You mentioned that you'd been considering finishing your PhD. You're practically ABD, so why not?"

"I dunno. Maybe." One slim shoulder shrugs. "Um. Why do you have these ginormous fish tanks in this barn, anyway?"

Delphine mentally files away the obvious evasion for later review. "They're part of an experiment. I'm trying out different aquaponics methods to see what works best in here."

"Aquaponics?"

"A hybrid of aquaculture — raising fish under controlled circumstances — and hydroponics. The water from the fish tank is pumped to grow beds, where the waste products are broken down and absorbed by plants, then the clean water gets returned to the tank. It's an elegantly simple system."

"Whoa, cool. So that's why the roof is see-through in here, not like in the big barn."

"Yes. I replaced the old roof with acrylic panels."

"How come, though? I mean, you have, what, almost 400 acres of land that you can grow shit on."

"Yes, but my income is tremendously volatile — it's contingent on things like commodity prices, exporting issues and weather, which means almost constant economic risk. I've made significant improvements to the farm, but they won't pay off for years, especially since the projections aren't looking good. I can't influence prices or the farm share, but what I can do is find ways to generate income streams that aren't dependent on conventional crops and seasonality."

The slender body in her arms suddenly tenses, as though humming with electric current. "So could you grow, like, anything in the fish-poop system?"

"Pretty much anything that's harvested as a leaf. Lettuces, kale, spinach, herbs, things like that. Fruits and vegetables, too, but they need additional fertilizers and nutrients." She refrains from mentioning to her vegan lover that the fish will be harvested as well, once they reach marketable size.

"And this is all totally organic."

"Technically, yes. I'm not certified, though. The process costs too much."

"How much growing space could you fit in here?"

Delphine blinks. "Theoretically, ten times the surface area of the fish tanks. So," she does a few quick mental calculations, "roughly 10,000 square feet."

"Dude." Cosima straightens up, eyes rounding behind her glasses and face alight. "You could grow _so much weed_."

***********************************************************************************************

"I don't know," Delphine says for what seems like the hundredth time, idly stroking the long planes of Cosima's back and breathing in the intoxicating scents of sex and sweat.

Cosima snuggles closer. "Just think about it. Once you get your grow license, you can sell to suppliers in the state. No need to have a standalone store, so you don't have to worry about the retail aspect unless you want to. Once you're up and running, you could expand to selling to edibles manufacturers. This could be fucking huge for you."

"But I know hardly anything about growing weed."

"Got you covered there. I can show you how to get off the ground. Basic stuff like how to germinate seeds, what kinds of strains sell best, training the plants so they'll give you more yield, drying and trimming and curing buds, shit like that; the rest you can pick up along the way. 'Cause if I know anything about you, you'll do an assload of research until you've learned every possible nuance and trick in the book." Sitting up to straddle Delphine's hips, Cosima squints down at her, smiling. "This could solve both of our problems. You need a steady source of income and a product that nobody else around here is selling. I need a job, or anyway something to keep me from going out of my mind with boredom. Total win-win."

Delphine reaches up to cup the curve of the silken cheek, playing the tip of her thumb over Cosima's lips. "You make it sound so easy. Getting the license isn't exactly cheap, you know, especially if I intend to sell to both recreational and medical wholesalers. And from the little I do know about growing weed, I'll need to install high intensity lighting, which means more expense up front as well as big power bills."

"What about that hill where you said there's too much exposure and erosion of the topsoil to sustain crops? You could put wind turbines up there. I bet you could generate enough electricity for the whole farm, not just the grow lights."

"That's a great idea — there are significant tax incentives for converting even partially to wind power. Solar, too." Despite her misgivings, Delphine is starting to get intrigued by the possibilities. "But there's still the problem of the initial outlay. I would have to purchase the turbines and other equipment. Even if I buy used stuff, I still have to pay for the licensing and application fees. We're talking potentially tens of thousands of dollars, and I just don't have that kind of cash right now."

"Well, I do."

"What?"

"I saved just about every buck I earned waiting tables and tending bar all through college and grad school because academic scholarships took care of most of my tuition. My car is a steaming piece of shit but it's paid for, and Mrs. S lets me rent my place for next to nothing, so I don't have a lot of expenses. Say the word and the money's yours. Consider it my partnership buy-in."

Delphine has to admit that Cosima's enthusiasm is infectious. As is the enticing wriggling of her hips. "Partner, hmmm?"

White teeth flash in the dimmed light. "In the business sense. Not to mention I fully expect to be in charge of quality control over your product."

"I would expect nothing less. All right, I'll sit down and run the numbers tomorrow, I promise. It's crazy, but," she reaches to stroke teasingly along the inside of one beautifully muscled thigh, "it just might be crazy enough to work."

Her fingers move higher, provoking a whimper and involuntary gyration of the agile body perched atop her. "Do that again," Cosima croaks.

Grinning, Delphine obliges.


	12. Promettre des jours meilleurs

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Off a prompt from [SonnetCXVI](https://archiveofourown.org/users/SonnetCXVI/works): _Farmer D canning something. I like the metaphor of putting something away for later._

The little weed plants are growing — well, like weeds.

Cosima had coaxed a better than 95% germination rate from her seeds. Now the carefully tended seedlings nestle into the growth medium in neat, widely spaced rows. Fed by the prodigious output of hungry fish and encouraged by banks of high-intensity LED lights, some of the plants are nearly a foot high. Already the scent of weed is subtly prevalent; she will need to do something soon to upgrade the ventilation in the barn before the smell becomes overwhelming.

 _A good problem to have_ , Delphine reminds herself, though she has to tamp down the tendency to calculate yield and profit as she does a quick walkthrough and inspection of the aquaponics systems. _Don't get ahead of yourself. There's still a long way to go and anything could happen before harvest._ Still, she can't help thinking of the robust little plants as growing money.

She is pleased to see that the upflow filters that Cosima's friend Scott designed and installed are working as well as they had hoped. For now, the solids have to be dumped manually into the mineralization tank, but Scott has promised refinements that should reduce daily maintenance to a minimum.

Closing the barn door behind her, Delphine takes a detour through the garden to pick a handful of herbs. Lavender, rosemary, tarragon and thyme blend their individual notes into an intriguing harmony. Distracted by sniffing at her impromptu bouquet, she's almost reached the house before she catches sight of the galvanized washtub sitting on the side porch. The tub is heaped full of dusky purple plums. As she climbs the steps, she sees a note scrawled in a familiar bold, elegantly swooping hand: **Some early ones coming in. Thought you might like a few. - S**

As always, Siobhan has been extraordinarily thoughtful, knowing that the tiny, fiercely tart plums are Delphine's favorite. This is no casual gift, though. The skins of this variety are so fragile that the little fruits have to be harvested by hand; they do not ripen all at once, so picking them is a laborious process that can drag out for weeks. And there must be at least ten pounds of them in the tub. _A few_.

She resists the urge to call Siobhan, who would only gruffly brush off her thanks. But she does know how she can repay S's generosity.

In the kitchen, kept company by Georges, who snoozes by the window in a slant of sunlight, she sings along with the radio as she washes and sorts the little plums. Most of them are verging on being overripe, absolutely perfect for her intended purpose. Slicing each one a bit off center and parallel to the natural seam maximizes the amount of plum she can remove from the pit at one stroke. She removes the other side, then trims around the pit as closely as possible and drops the pieces into her ancient copper maslin pan. Patiently, deftly, she repeats the process with the remaining plums until the pan is full of glistening flesh still clad in its thin fragrant skin. As she works, she occasionally pops a few of the pits into her mouth and nibbles, licks and sucks every last particle of plum from them. Irresistibly reminded of performing similar actions on Cosima early this morning, Delphine smiles to herself.

Measuring by eye, she scoops in sugar and pectin and then adds a couple heavy pinches of salt; with her hands she mixes everything together until well combined. Even after scrubbing, her hands remain tinged slightly pink and faintly scented. While the plums macerate, she fills her big canner and sets it on the stove. It will take quite a while to come to a boil, so she takes her time gathering clean jars and new lids, fitting them neatly into the canner's racks to sterilize them in the heating water.

By the time she's returned to the kitchen after taking a leisurely shower and a brief nap, the plums have released most of their juice in a dark crimson puddle and the big pot is at a low rolling boil. She turns on the burner beneath the maslin pan. After stirring in some calcium water from its jar in the fridge and adding a squeeze of lemon, she cooks down the plums, stirring frequently, occasionally mashing a larger piece with the edge of her spoon or skimming off the layer of foamy scum that develops at the surface. By the time the mixture starts to thicken, it's beautifully glossy and has reduced by about a quarter of its original volume.

Just as she is moving the pan off the heat, she sees Cosima waving at her through the wide window. Smiling, Delphine gestures with a tilt of her head for her to come in.

"Hey, babe. This is, like, the ultimate lesbian wet dream."

The pan safely set aside, Delphine turns to cup Cosima's face in her hands and kiss her. "Hello, chérie. What is?" she murmurs against the full lips, caressing the soft curves of the cheeks with her thumbs.

Cosima chuckles, wrapping her arms around Delphine's waist. "Gorgeous blonde in nothing but a threadbare 'beater and criminally short cutoffs, barefoot and cooking. Can't ask for a better fantasy than that. What are you making?"

"Plum jam." Pulling a teaspoon from the silverware drawer, she scoops up a bit of the jam, blows on it to cool it, and hands the spoon to Cosima, who licks off the blob with exaggeratedly obscene moans and swipes of her tongue.

"Holy shit, that's awesome."

Laughing, Delphine kisses away a smear from the corner of Cosima's mouth, enjoying the barely-sweet puckery tartness and the burst of flavor that fills her senses like concentrated sunlight. "Yes, it is."

"Need a hand?"

"No, but you can keep a certain someone occupied," she nods at Georges. The big orange tabby is stretching with all of his toes extended and beginning to look very interested in the proceedings. "I would prefer not to preserve hair in the jam."

"Dude. On it." Kissing the tip of Delphine's nose, Cosima goes over to the window and sits cross-legged next to the cat, who twines delightedly beneath her stroking hand. "Did you finish cultivating the soybeans today?"

Delphine pulls out the sterilized jars and lets them drain upside down on a cooling rack. She smiles at the sight of Georges standing on Cosima's lap and butting his head hard against her chin. "Yes, and not a moment too soon. In this weather it's a constant battle to keep ahead of the weeds. I'll have to do the sweet potatoes tomorrow."

Fitting her canning funnel into the mouth of a still-hot jar, she quickly but carefully ladles in jam, pouring smoothly to prevent air pockets and leaving half an inch of headspace. After filling the rest, one by one she wipes the mouth of each jar with a damp towel and drops on a lid, loosely screws on a ring to hold the lid in place, then transfers the filled jars into the canner. She sets the maslin pan into the sink to soak and wipes down the counters. When the jars have processed long enough, she moves them to the cooling rack and listens with satisfaction to the series of * _ping_ *s as the lid buttons depress. With a Sharpie she labels each lid and sets aside five jars to give to Siobhan. Admiring the ruby color of the jars' contents glowing in the last rays of the setting sun, she joins Cosima on the window seat.

Georges is purring like an outboard motor as Cosima runs her hand up and down the full length of his outstretched body, sometimes using her fingers to rake furrows into his thick fur. "I never thought I would be jealous of my cat," Delphine teases, swinging her legs up and leaning against the wall so that Cosima can scoot backward into her embrace. Vaguely offended that no one is petting him any more but far too relaxed to do anything about it, Georges curls into what Cosima calls the half-Superman pose and falls asleep.

"You can have a tummy rub any time you want, babe." Cosima burrows into the curve of her neck and softly strokes the sensitive skin at the inside of her thigh. "I'm kinda glad you're not as furry as the G man, though."

She smiles, pressing her lips to Cosima's satiny temple and breathing in her scent. "Good day at work?"

"Not bad. Had a couple of old farts who camped at my tables for almost the whole shift but they tipped really well, so that was okay. The diner's not busy enough to need me full time, though, so I'm gonna have to cast around for something else. At least until our budding weed empire makes us filthy rich. What?" she says, kissing the corner of Delphine's reflexive frown.

"It's bad luck to speculate about a crop before it's harvested." Delphine buries her mouth in the varied textures of Cosima's dreads. "Sorry, we farmers are a superstitious lot."

Cosima snorts. "Well, I'm not a farmer, I'm a scientist. I believe in research, hard evidence and what I can see with my own two eyes. And I believe in you."

Warmth expands in her chest. Tipping up Cosima's chin, she kisses her deeply until they are both breathless. "Let's go to bed, chérie."

"Betcher sweet ass, farmer girl."


	13. Dans la forêt lointaine, on entend le coucou

"Are you fucking kidding me?"

Delphine smiles at the expression on Cosima's face. "You've never seen a llama before?"

Prudently standing behind Delphine and peering around her, Cosima stares. "Maybe on, like, Animal Planet. Um. Are you running a petting zoo or something?"

"Not quite. Dolly guards the sheep."

Cosima starts to giggle. "You have a llama named Dolly? Dolly Llama? Hey!" she glares indignantly when Delphine reaches around to pinch her butt.

"I didn't name her. That was her name when she came to me from the breeder; changing it would have been disrespectful to her."

At her feet, Dot crouches as though preparing to pounce. Too disciplined to whine, nonetheless every muscle and line of the Border collie's lean body seems to quiver with anticipation. "En avant," she tells the dog fondly. A black-and-white blur streaks toward the llama, whose placid chewing never ceases. The big creature blinks sleepily and slowly extends her long neck until they can touch noses, then blows out what sounds like a wet, flapping sneeze. Unable to contain her delight, soon Dot is licking every part of Dolly's face and chin within reach, her long tail madly fanning the air all the while.

"It's an unrequited love affair, I'm afraid," Delphine says, draping an arm around Cosima's shoulders. Cosima presses closer, threading an arm comfortably around her waist and tucking her hand in the front pocket of Delphine's jeans. "Dolly doesn't mind Dot but her real affection is reserved for the lambs. I think she thinks the older sheep are like very stupid distant cousins that must be tolerated for the sake of the family, but she is besotted whenever there are newborns."

"Silly question but... how good are llamas at guarding sheep?"

"Very. Since I got them, my losses due to predation from coyotes and stray dogs have dropped to almost nothing. My oldest girl even charged at and stomped on some drunk kids who thought it would be fun to scare a flock in the middle of the night during lambing season. One of the idiots has a permanent dent in his skull."

"Good." They watch contentedly for a while as the sheep mill around, finally settling down after their initial restlessness in reaction to Dot's presence. "Um. Is Dolly _humming_?"

Kissing Cosima's temple and smiling against the smooth warm skin, Delphine laughs. "Yes. Llamas have all kinds of vocalizations but humming is the most common."

"Why do they do it?"

"Because they don't know the words."

It takes a second to sink in. "That is a terrible joke, farmer girl."

"Yes, it is. Do you want to hear an even worse one?"

"Fuck. Okay, go."

"The llama who ran off the drunk kids? Her name is Como Se Llama."

"Augh!"


	14. Just When I Thought it Couldn't Get No Hotter

You can tell a lot about a person from his handshake.

Take the paunchy, middle aged guy who's filling up most of the doorway and giving me a real good look up his nostrils. His hand is as pale and soft and clammy as a jellyfish, and about as welcoming. Manicured nails. For some reason he's wearing a three-piece suit with his dress slippers in the middle of the afternoon. Never done a hard day's work in his life, and not about to start. "Yes, Mademoiselle?"

Definitely not the customer who called me about buying a tractor.

It takes a lot of effort not to wipe my palm on my jeans. "Kiely Baumann, from Royce's." No sign of recognition on his face. It's only the biggest farm equipment sales company in the region, pal. Okay, try another approach. "I'm looking for Bob Peterson. Is he at home?"

The frown lines carved on either side of Frenchy's mouth get deeper. "Robert" — naturally, he gives it the snooty pronunciation: ro- _Bair_ , gargling the Rs — "is not here."

"Hello, dear," says a slightly mumbly voice behind him. A plump smiling gray-haired woman shuffles forward. Frenchy reluctantly moves aside, but to his credit he lets the woman lean on his arm for support. Half of her face is slack and droopy and she's noticeably weaker on that side of her body. "Bob is expecting you. He's a little late because he wants to get the entire crop of dent corn harvested for silage today but he should be home any time now. Won't you come in? Would you like something to drink while you wait?"

French, too, but her accent is way less pronounced, like she's lived in the States for a long time. She's so warm and friendly, I can't help smiling back. "Thank you, coffee would be lovely."

In the front parlor, she gestures toward a big beat up leather armchair that turns out to be amazingly comfortable. Frenchy helps her to a wooden rocking chair by a window that's clearly her preferred spot and tucks a wool throw over her lap. She pats him on the arm. "Merci, Arnaud. The coffee, please?"

He nods and leaves the room meekly without a word of protest. Didn't expect that.

"My younger brother," the woman says fondly. "He has been such a big help to me. Rather lucky that he and his family had just moved here from France when I had my stroke a few years ago."

Moved here under what the Victorians would have called reduced circumstances, I suspect. But my opinion of him as a human being goes up.

From the direction of the kitchen, I can hear dishes clinking and the hiss of a sink. A door slams and voices babble and swirl. "I'm afraid I didn't get your name — "

"Bonjour, Tante Mireille!" A girl swoops into the room and bends to kiss the woman's cheek. I get an impression of height, the scent of something sweet and flowery, and a lot of blonde hair. Then she straightens up and turns around.

Oh my holy damn.

_Close your fucking mouth, Baumann, you're gonna catch flies._

Tall and slender with long, long legs like a half grown deer. The face of an escaped angel. Huge hazel eyes that seem to contain a hundred different shades of brown and green. And fuck, that hair. Silky looking honey blonde curls that cascade past her shoulders. My fingers instantly want to tangle themselves into them and never let go.

Those big doe eyes look me up and down, then crinkle at the corners into a smile. "Hello," she says to me, holding out her hand. "I'm Delphine."

Now that is a hand that's done some work. Firm and dry, tanned, calloused and scarred. Just enough of a squeeze to hint at the strength in it. I have to remind myself to let go before the kid starts to think I'm creeping on her.

Kid? Yes. A closer look at her face confirms my initial impression that she's young. Really young. Like, jailbait young.

Like, _don't even think about it_ young.

She's still smiling down at me. I give myself a mental slap. _Kid's just being polite. Get a hold of yourself_. "Kiely Baumann."

"You're here about the tractor? Uncle Bob said I could discuss specs with you, since I'm the one who's going to be using it the most. We need something small and lightweight, with a low center of gravity — the 656 is far too tall and heavy on steep hills."

Trying not to look surprised, I nod. Some part of my brain registers that she's got the barest trace of an accent and a soft, lilting voice that I would be happy to listen to all day, but she clearly knows her shit, which makes focusing on my job a lot easier. "I have a few nice machines that should suit your needs and your budget." I reach into my briefcase and pull out the folder I'd prepared. "This is a crawler that I thought would work well for you. Have a look."

Instead of taking the folder from me and sitting on the sofa, she leaves it open on the padded arm of my chair and leans over, so close that I can feel the warmth of her hip against my shoulder. Flipping through the pages, she bursts out laughing. "That's adorable!"

I check to see which photo of the 5CTL Cingolato she's looking at and smile. "Yeah, it's cute, isn't it? Tough little thing, though, and reliable as long as you keep up with routine maintenance. Should be exactly what you're looking for. It was designed for use in vineyards in mountainous areas, which is why it's got extra wide tracks. Selling for a song because most folks don't want to deal with learning how to use the hand clutch and steer with the brake pedals."

"Standard 3-point hitch and PTO?"

"Yes. Air-cooled 2.2-liter three-cylinder diesel paired to a 4-speed manual transmission with a hi/lo transfer case. Fully restored operator's area and the correct front and rear lights. All gauges are functional, and it even still has the original toolbox with the Lamborghini badge, if that matters to you."

"How many accumulated hours?"

"The meter shows around 5200."

Delphine carefully examines each photo, paying particular attention to the closeups of the engine restoration and the repainted bodywork. "All right. Can you bring it here tomorrow morning so I can try it out?"

I blink. Most farm equipment negotiations take hours of roundabout discussion before getting anywhere close to the point. "Sure. Uh, what time?"

"5:30? Sorry to drag you out here so early but I need to bush hog the Johnson grass down in the south valley before it goes to seed."

Damn farmers. But those big doe eyes are hypnotic. And very, very persuasive. "You got it."

"Wonderful." She bites her lower lip. I don't think I'm imagining that she's looking down my shirt. "Would you like to stay for dinner, if it's all right with my parents?" Glancing at her aunt, who has fallen asleep, she drops her voice. "We don't often get company around here."

 _Jailbait jailbait jailbait jailbait_... "That would be nice. If it isn't too much trouble," I find myself saying.

Her hand moves to rest on my arm below the fold of my sleeve. And stays there. "I'll go check with Maman, but I'm sure it'll be fine. I won't be a minute." An unexpectedly wicked slow grin steals across her mouth. "It'll be a couple hours before dinner's ready. While we're waiting, I can show you something out in the barn you might be interested in."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Had a great deal of fun with this installment but it makes me regret my resolve to keep this series PG-rated...


	15. Not Afraid to Stay in the Game

"Delphine? Hey, Delphine?"

Warm and with sluggishly heavy limbs, she slowly swims back up to consciousness. Gradually awareness trickles through her body. Why would her uncle wake her in the middle of the night...?

Instantly alert, she sits up. "Is it Fanette?"

"Yup. You were right about her waxing yesterday."

Throwing off the duvet and scrambling out of bed, Delphine fumbles for her jeans and a light jacket, not bothering with socks before jamming her feet into her boots. "How far along?"

"Just getting started."

Moving quietly through the darkened house and out the kitchen door, she follows her uncle along the well trodden path to the barn. The air is crisp and makes the inside of her nose crackle when she inhales. Stars blaze overhead, piercing through the black velvet of the night sky. A barred owl hoots and from somewhere far away comes the drowsy mumbling of a sheep, but otherwise the only sound is the scrunch of gravel underfoot. Somewhat to her surprise, she has no trouble keeping up with her uncle's pace; she is still getting used to the new length of her limbs, thanks to yet another growth spurt this summer.

Carefully her uncle slides open the barn door just wide enough for them to pass through, closing it softly behind them. From the foaling stall in the far corner, Delphine can hear the sounds of the Shire cross pacing restlessly. "Easy, girl," says her uncle in his deep rumbling voice, loud enough for the mare to hear so she won't startle at their approach. Together they peer through the open half of the stall door, letting their eyes adjust to the dim light from the shielded overhead bulb.

The big bay mare's tail is switching. Her ears flicker toward them, acknowledging their presence, but she is preoccupied with nosing and pawing at her flanks. Pacing again, she turns so that Delphine can see the sunken muscles on either side of the hooks and the swollen, floppy vulva.

Grabbing the kit by the stall door and the bucket of hot water that her uncle hands her, Delphine walks toward the mare, crooning nonsense. The muscular arched neck dips so she can scratch under the bristly mane; they stand forehead to forehead, communing and sharing breath for a long moment, until the horse sighs with a flutter of wide nostrils. While her uncle quietly picks out a pile of manure and pitches in clean straw, Delphine moves carefully, leaving her hand in contact with the long level back, until she reaches the tail. Quickly she wraps it with a fresh bandage. Using mild soap and some Nolvasan from the kit, she gently cleans the mare's teats, udder, legs and buttocks, sponging and rinsing until the skin fairly squeaks. Taking the bucket and kit with her, Delphine follows her uncle out of the stall and leans over the half door to wait.

After eating a bit of hay, the mare resumes her pacing, shaking her head and snorting. "Won't be long now," whispers her uncle. Delphine nods.

Sweat darkens the coat as the first mild contractions start. Tail raised, the pelvic muscles relax even further; above the flanks, her sides appear to cave in as the foal shifts position. The mare lies down on the thick bed of straw with a grunt, then groans as the contractions become more intense and closer together. With a heave, she regains her feet, head hanging. A gush of amber fluid streams from her vulva, the water sac having broken with the effort to stand. The whitish membrane appears after a moment, then a small foot with its rubbery frondlike hoof capsule. But nothing further, even after a series of contractions of the vast heaving sides.

Delphine looks up at her uncle, who nods. Pulling on shoulder-length plastic gloves and slathering them with sterile lube, she enters the stall again, murmuring reassurances to the panting mare. Carefully sliding her hand into the vaginal canal, she encounters first the protruding foot and then the foal's nose. Gently, she pushes the nose back toward the uterus and reaches in deeper until she finds the other leg. "It's okay, foot's just turned back," she says to her uncle, relieved. Flexing the leg until she can grasp the hoof, she cups the hoof in her hand and brings it up so that it is beneath the foal's neck and over the rim of the pelvis.

Double checking to make sure the nose is in the proper position, she takes a firm hold on each cannon bone. Patiently she waits. As soon as the mare starts pushing again, Delphine leans back and pulls out and down. The feet appear, with the nose tucked neatly between them. At the next contractions, first the right shoulder, then the left pass through the birth canal. A brief rest, one more contraction and the whole slippery mass follows. Catching the foal in her arms, she lowers it carefully to the straw as close to its mother as she can. With her hands she breaks through the membrane and clears mucus from the nostrils. She watches for an anxious moment, then feels her heart leap as the foal shakes its head and breathes on its own.

Leaving Fanette and her new baby alone to rest, Delphine strips off the gloves and washes up at the utility sink in the tackroom. By the time she's changed into the fresh t-shirt she'd left in the foaling kit and returned to her uncle's side, the big mare has cleaned off the foal and torn the cord. Her uncle hands her a small jar of Betadine; carefully she immerses the umbilical stump in it without spilling any on the foal. "Filly," she says quietly to her uncle, who gives her a thumbs up.

Back outside the stall, they watch as Fanette delivers the afterbirth, which appears intact and of a healthy coloration and size. Nudging the foal into a sternal position, the mare whickers. Wobbling, the foal manages to stand on her impossibly long and spindly legs, the knees comically large in comparison. Delphine reaches for her uncle's hand and holds her breath. The foal's questing head butts and nuzzles at the mare's flank until it finds the udder and begins to nurse.

The huge work-hardened hand engulfing hers gives a gentle squeeze. She looks up at her uncle, smiling through joyful tears. "You done good, kiddo," he says, smiling back.


	16. Birds Do It, Bees Do It

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Off a prompt from [trylonandperisphere](https://archiveofourown.org/users/trylonandperisphere): _Sweet lickable nectar..._

"If you get bees up your crotch, don't even _think_ about asking me to help you get them out."

Balancing near the top of a lightweight ladder leaning against the bole of an apple tree, Delphine smiles down at Cosima and tries unsuccessfully to suppress a laugh. In stark contrast to her own tanktop, cutoffs and sandals, Cosima is swaddled from head to toe in an old beekeeping suit that had belonged to her aunt. When she'd been healthy, Aunt Mireille had been tall, strong from years of working on the farm, and comfortably upholstered; the sleeves and legs of her suit now puddle around Cosima's gloved hands and booted feet in comically redundant folds. "Swarming bees tend to be very docile — they don't have a home or a brood to defend, and their honey stomachs are full, so they're fat and lazy and happy. They have no reason to sting. See?"

Moving with exquisite care, Delphine slides her bare hand into the center of the soccer ball-sized buzzing mass wrapped around a bobbing branch. She marvels at the warmth. Tiny prickly feet and the vibrations of thousands of small wings tickle her skin. Scooping up a handful and lifting creates an elastic ribbon of bees that hold on to one another with surprising strength, reluctant to be separated from the cluster.

"Dude, you're insane!"

Flashing a grin at her girlfriend, Delphine gently shakes the bees from her hand, letting them rejoin their compatriots. With the pruning shears she pulls from the back pocket of her shorts, she snips off the end of the branch. Climbing slowly down the ladder, she carries the branch with its dense cluster of bees over to the Langstroth hive she'd set up at the edge of the orchard a few dozen yards away. Carefully she lowers the branch, watching with satisfaction as virtually all the bees stream into the box and clamber over the frames. Brushing stray bees away from the edges of the box to keep from squashing them, she places the inner cover and then the telescoping outer cover on top of the hive.

Wary despite the protection of the suit, Cosima shuffles forward awkwardly, still hanging back a few feet away. "Are you, like, a bee whisperer or something?"

"You just have to understand how they think and what they want. The fact that they're swarming means that they're looking for a new home. I've provided them a nice clean hive with plenty of room and lots of food sources nearby, and I sprayed it with swarm lure to make it more attractive for them so they're unlikely to leave. And if you've got the queen... aha!" She points to one of the worker bees lining up near the entrance at the bottom board. "See the little white spot on the last segment of the abdomen? That's the Nasonov gland; the scent from it will broadcast a signal to any bees that either flew away during the transfer or were out scouting for a better location. They stand head down and beat their wings to disperse the scent until the rest of the bees have joined the ones in the box. That's how you know you have the queen — they wouldn't be fanning otherwise."

"And then what?" Cautiously Cosima unzips the veil and tips it back, revealing her red, sweating face. She pulls off her thick gloves and removes her fogged-over glasses, waving them until the fog evaporates and the lenses are clear again.

"And then nothing. You leave them alone to do what they do best. They're going to be hard at work building comb and starting to raise brood, so I won't look in on them for at least a week." Trying not to giggle, she helps Cosima out of the bee suit. "I was worried you'd pass out in this heat."

Sweat darkens her maroon t-shirt, which clings damply to her slender torso. "At least you didn't say 'I told you so.'" Wide hazel eyes narrow into a mock glare. "But you were thinking it."

"Never crossed my mind," Delphine says, raising her hand in the three-fingered Scout salute. "Come on, let's go back to the house. I could use a drink."

Gathering up the bee suit and her ladder and tools, they stroll hand in hand down the path that runs alongside the orchard. "What is that incredible smell? I meant to ask you about it earlier but you were like all hella fired up to catch your bees."

"I had to hurry. Swarms don't usually stay in one place for very long." Inhaling deeply, Delphine fills her senses with a familiar intensely sweet, fruity, faintly musky aroma. "Mmm, honeysuckle."

She leads Cosima over to a vine-covered fence. Butterflies and chubby bumblebees flit in and around hundreds of pale yellow trumpet-shaped blossoms that nod in the warm breeze. Plucking a flower, making sure to include the little green calyx, she pinches just hard enough to break through the bottom of the petal, then tugs on the calyx to pull out the stringy white style, which squeezes out a tiny clear droplet from the tube-like end of the blossom. She brings the little drop to Cosima's mouth. "Lick it."

Up go the sculpted eyebrows. The pink tip of her tongue darts out. "Oh, man. That's amazing."

Delphine bends to kiss Cosima, smiling against her lips. The honey-like essence of the flower mingles with the sharp tang of clean sweat and the tastes and scents of this woman who in such a short time had become as fundamental as air. "Yes, it is."


End file.
